Storm Watchers

Maya's heart did that thing again — the **lightning** strike feeling that happened whenever Jason's lock swung near hers in the hallway. Three weeks of junior year and she'd perfected the art of accidental coincidence. She knew his schedule like she was getting paid to know it. She knew he bought the same papaya-mango smoothie every Tuesday. She knew he was **running** for student council president, mostly because his posters were everywhere and also because she'd lowkey been to his campaign website twice.

"You're basically a spy," Zara had told her at lunch yesterday, watching Maya pick at her salad. "But like, a weirdly wholesome one. Instead of state secrets, you're collecting facts about his smoothie preferences."

Maya had laughed it off, but her face burned. Because Zara wasn't wrong. Maya had spent the past month **spy**-ing on Jason's Instagram stories (carefully, so she wouldn't show up in his views), learning that he liked indie bands and vintage sneakers and that his dog was named Cosmo. Information that felt precious, even though she'd never actually used any of it.

Now, outside the cafeteria, Maya got ready to execute Operation: Actually Speak To Him For Once. She'd rehearsed it all morning. Just a casual "hey, good luck with the election." Simple. Chill. Not weird at all.

She was practically sprinting toward him when her body betrayed her — she tripped over absolutely nothing, her lunch bag exploding everywhere. Apple slices. A container of **spinach** and chickpea salad (which she'd packed trying to be healthy, new semester new her, etc.). The most embarrassing part: her emergency **papaya** chunks, which scattered like she was some kind of fruit-based confetti cannon.

Jason stopped. The hallway behind him cleared. And there Maya was, on the ground, surrounded by spinach leaves like a sad salad explosion.

She expected him to keep walking. Anyone would.

Instead, he crouched down and started gathering her runaway fruit.

"I was actually going to come talk to you," he said, not looking at her, focused intently on a particularly elusive papaya chunk. "I've seen you at my campaign meetings. In the back. You take really good notes."

Maya's brain short-circuited. "You noticed me?"

Jason finally looked up, smiling kind of crooked. "Maya, right? You're in my history class. You sit three rows back, always wearing that green hoodie. Also, you literally wave at me in the hallway sometimes and then pretend you weren't waving at anyone."

The hallway lights flickered — actual thunder **lightning** this time, outside the windows. Rain started hammering against the glass.

"So," Jason said, standing up and offering her a hand. "Since we're both here and there's spinach everywhere... you want to help me with some campaign posters after school? I could use someone organized."

Maya took his hand. Her face was definitely the color of a ripe tomato. But as she stood there, holding a handful of recovered papaya chunks while Jason laughed about the spinach situation, she realized something:

She didn't have to spy anymore.

She was finally part of the story.